Tommaso Salvini

Tommaso Salvini as King Lear

[During his American tour of 1882-1883, Salvini played in Boston. One
of his auditors, Henry James, the distinguished novelist, in the
Atlantic Monthly for March, 1883, gave a detailed criticism of the
performances. Of Salvini’s Othello he said:

... “What an immense impression–simply as an impression–the actor
makes on the spectator who sees him for the first time as the turbaned
and deep-voiced Moor! He gives us his measure as a man: he acquaints
us with that luxury of perfect confidence in the physical resources of
the actor which is not the most frequent satisfaction of the modern
play-goer. His powerful, active, manly frame, his noble, serious,
vividly expressive face, his splendid smile, his Italian eye, his
superb, voluminous voice, his carriage, his ease, the assurance he
instantly gives that he holds the whole part in his hands and can make
of it exactly what he chooses,–all this descends upon the spectator’s
mind with a richness which immediately converts attention into faith,
and expectation into sympathy. He is a magnificent creature, and you
are already on his ride. His generous temperament is contagious; you
find yourself looking at him, not so much as an actor, but as a
hero.... The admirable thing in this nature of Salvini’s is that his
intelligence is equal to his material powers, so that if the
exhibition is, as it were, personal, it is not simply physical. He
has a great imagination: there is a noble intention in all he does.

The pages which now follow, taken from Salvini’s Autobiography, are
presented with the permission of his publishers, the Century Company,
New York.–ED.]

First Appearance

The Bon and Berlaffa Company, in which my father was engaged,
alternated in its repertory between the comedies of Goldoni and the
tragedies of Alfieri.

One evening the “Donne Curiose” by Goldoni was to be given, but the
actor who was to take the harlequin’s part, represented in that piece
by a stupid slave called Pasquino, fell sick a few hours before the
curtain was to rise. The company had been together for a few days
only, and it was out of the question to substitute another play. It
had been decided to close the theatre for that night, when Berlaffa
asked:

“Why couldn’t your Tom take the part?” My father said that there was
no reason why he shouldn’t, but that Tom had never appeared in public,
and he didn’t know whether he had the courage.

The proposition was made to me, and I accepted on the spot, influenced
to no little extent by a desire to please the managers, who in my eyes
were people of great importance. Within three hours, with my iron
memory, I had easily mastered my little part of Pasquino, and, putting
on the costume of the actor who had fallen ill, I found myself a
full-fledged if a new performer. I was to speak in the Venetian
dialect; that was inconvenient for me rather than difficult, but at
Forte, where we were, any slip of pronunciation would hardly be
observed.

It was the first time that I was to go on the stage behind the
dazzling footlights, the first time that I was to speak in an
unaccustomed dialect, dressed up in ridiculous clothes which were not
my own; and I confess that I was so much frightened that I was tempted
to run back to my dressing-room, to take off my costume, and to have
nothing more to do with the play. But my father, who was aware of my
submissive disposition toward him, with a few words kept me at my
post.

“For shame!” said he; “a man has no right to be afraid.” A man! I
was scarce fourteen, yet I aspired to that title.

The conscript who is for the first time under fire feels a sense of
fear. Nevertheless, if he has the pride of his sex, and the dignity
of one who appreciates his duty, he stands firm, though it be against
big will. So it was with me when I began my part. When I perceived
that some of Pasquino’s lines were amusing the audience, I took
courage, and, like a little bird making its first flight, I arrived at
the goal, and was eager to try again. As it turned out, my actor’s
malady grew worse, so that he was forced to leave the company, and I
was chosen to take his place.

I must have had considerable aptitude for such comic parts as those of
stupid servants, for everywhere that we went I became the public’s
Benjamin. I made the people laugh, and they asked for nothing better.
All were surprised that, young and inexperienced as I was, I should
have so much cleverness of manner and such sureness of delivery. My
father was more surprised than anybody, for he had expected far less
of my immaturity and total lack of practice. It is certain that from
that time I began to feel that I was somebody. I had become useful,
or at least I thought I had, and, as a consequence, in my manner and
bearing I began to affect the young man more than was fitting in a
mere boy. I sought to figure in the conversation of grown people, and
many a time I had the pain of seeing my elders smile at my remarks.
It was my great ambition to be allowed to walk alone in the city
streets; my father was very loath to grant this boon, but he let me go
sometimes, perhaps to get a sample of my conduct. I don’t remember
ever doing anything at these times which could have displeased him; I
was particularly careful about it, since I saw him sad, pensive, and
afflicted owing to the misfortune which had befallen him, and soon be
began to accord me his confidence, which I was most anxious to gain.

A Father’s Advice

Often he spoke to me of the principles of dramatic art, and of the
mission of the artist. He told me that to have the right to call
one’s self an artist one must add honest work to talent, and he put
before me the example of certain actors who had risen to fame, but who
were repulsed by society on account of the triviality of their
conduct; of others who were brought by dissipation to die in a
hospital, blamed by all; and of still others who had fallen so low as
to hold out their hands for alms, or to sponge on their comrades and
to cozen them out of their money for unmerited subscriptions–all of
which things moved me to horror and deep repugnance. It was with good
reason that my father was called “Honest Beppo” by his fellows on the
stage. The incorruptibility and firmness of principle which he
cultivated in me from the time that I grew old enough to understand
have been my spur and guide throughout my career, and it is through no
merit of my own that I can count myself among those who have won the
esteem of society; I attribute all the merit to my father. He was con
scientious and honest to a scruple; so much so that of his own free
will he sacrificed the natural pride of the dramatic artist, and
denounced the well-earned honour of first place in his own company to
take second place with Gustavo Modena, whose artistic merit he
recognised as superior to his own, in order that I might profit by the
instruction of that admirable actor and sterling citizen. My father
preferred his son’s advantage to his own personal profit.

How Salvini Studied His Art

The parts in which I won the most sympathy from the Italian public
were those of Oreste in the tragedy of that name, Egisto in “Merope,"
Romeo in “Giulietta e Romeo,” Paolo in “Francesca da Rimini,” Rinaldo
in “Pia di Tolommei,” Lord Bonfield in “Pamela,” Domingo in the
“Suonatrice d ’Arpa,” and Gian Galeazzo in “Lodovico il Moro.” In all
these my success was more pronounced than in other parts, and I
received flattering marks of approval. I did not reflect, at that
time, of how great assistance to me it was to be constantly surrounded
by first-rate artists; but I soon came to feel that an atmosphere
untainted by poisonous microbes promotes unoppressed respiration, and
that in such an atmosphere soul and body maintain themselves healthy
and vigorous. I observed frequently in the “scratch” companies, which
played in the theatres of second rank young men and women who showed
very notable artistic aptitude, but who, for lack of cultivation and
guidance, ran to extravagance, overemphasis, and exaggeration. Up to
that time, while I had a clear appreciation of the reasons for
recognising defects in others, I did not know how to correct my own;
on the other hand, I recognised that the applause accorded me was
intended as an encouragement more than as a tribute which I had
earned. From a youth of pleasing qualities (for the moment I quell my
modesty), with good features, full of fire and enthusiasm, with a
harmonious and powerful voice, and with good intellectual faculties,
the public deemed that an artist should develop who would distinguish
himself, and perhaps attain eminence in the records of Italian art;
and for this reason it sought to encourage me, and to apply the spur
to my pride by manifesting its feeling of sympathy. By good fortune
I had enough conscience and good sense to receive this homage at its
just value. I felt the need of studying, not books alone, but men and
things, vice and virtue, love and hate, humility and haughtiness,
gentleness and cruelty, folly and wisdom, poverty and opulence,
avarice and lavishness, long-suffering and vengeance–in short, all
the passions for good and evil which have root in human nature. I
needed to study out the manner of rendering these passions in
accordance with the race of the men in whom they were exhibited, in
accordance with their special customs, principles, and education; I
needed to form a conception of the movement, the manner, the
expressions of face and voice characteristic of all these cases; I
must learn by intuition to grasp the characters of fiction, and by
study to reproduce those of history with semblance of truth, seeking
to give to every one a personality distinct from every other. In
fine, I must become capable of identifying myself with one or another
personage to such an extent as to lead the audience into the illusion
that the real personage, and not a copy, is before them. It would
then remain to learn the mechanism of my art; that is, to choose the
salient points and to bring them out, to calculate the effects and
keep them in proportion with the unfolding of the plot, to avoid
monotony in intonation and repetition in accentuation, to insure
precision and distinctness in pronunciation, the proper distribution
of respiration, and incisiveness of delivery. I must study; study
again; study always. It was not an easy thing to put these precepts
into practice. Very often I forgot them, carried away by excitement,
or by the superabundance of my vocal powers; indeed, until I had
reached an age of calmer reflection I was never able to get my
artistic chronometer perfectly regulated; it would always gain a few
minutes every twenty-four hours.

Faults in Acting

In my assiduous reading of the classics, the chief places were held
among the Greeks by the masculine and noble figures of Hector,
Achilles, Theseus, Oedipus; among the Scots by Trenmor, Fingal,
Cuchullin; and among the Romans by Caesar, Brutus, Titus, and Cato.
These characters influenced me to incline toward a somewhat bombastic
system of gesticulation and a turgid delivery. My anxiety to enter to
the utmost into the conceptions of my authors, and to interpret them
clearly, disposed me to exaggerate the modulations of my voice like
some mechanism which responds to every touch, not reflecting that the
abuse of this effort would bring me too near to song. Precipitation
in delivery, too, which when carried too far destroys all distinctness
and incisiveness, was due to my very high impressionability, and to
the straining after technical scenic effects. Thus, extreme vehemence
in anger would excite me to the point of forgetting the fiction, and
cause me to commit involuntarily lamentable outbursts. Hence I
applied myself to overcome the tendency to singsong in my voice, the
exuberance of my rendering of passion, the exclamatory quality of my
phrasing, the precipitation of my pronunciation, and the swagger of my
motions.

I shall be asked how the public could abide me, with all these
defects; and I answer that the defects, though numerous, were so
little prominent that they passed unobserved by the mass of the
public, which always views broadly and could be detected only by the
acute and searching eye of the intelligent critic. I make no pretence
that I was able to correct myself all at once. Sometimes my
impetuosity would carry me away, and not until I had come to mature
age was I able to free myself to any extent from this failing. Then I
confirmed myself in my opinion that the applause of the public is not
all refined gold, and I became able to separate the gold from the
dross in the crucible of intelligence. How many on the stage are
content with the dross!

The Desire to Excel in Everything

My desire to improve in my art had its origin in my instinctive
impulse to rise above mediocrity–an instinct that must have been born
in me, since, when still a little boy, I used to put forth all my
energies to eclipse what I saw accomplished by my companions of like
age. When I was sixteen, and at Naples, there were in the
boarding-house, at two francs and a half a day, two young men who were
studying music and singing, and to surpass them in their own field I
practised the scales until I could take B natural. Later on, when the
tone of my voice; had lowered to the barytone, impelled always by my
desire to accomplish something, I took lessons in music from the
Maestro Terziani, and appeared at a benefit with the famous tenor
Boucarde, and Signora Monti, the soprano, and sang in a duet from
“Belisaria,” the aria from “Maria di Rohan,"and “La Settimana
d’Amore,” by Niccolai; and I venture to say that I was not third best
in that triad. But I recognised that singing and declamation were
incompatible pursuits, since the method of producing the voice is
totally different, and they must therefore be mutually harmful.
Financially, I was not in a condition to be free to choose between the
two careers, and I persevered of necessity in the dramatic profession.
Whether my choice was for the best I do not know; it is certain that
if my success had been in proportion to my love of music, and I have
reason to believe that it might have been, I should not have remained
in obscurity.

A Model for Othello

[In 1871, Salvini organised a company for a tour in South America, On
his way thither he paused at Gibraltar, and gainfully.]

At Gibraltar I spent my time studying the Moors. I was much struck by
one very fine figure, majestic in walk, and Roman in face, except for
a slight projection of the lower lip. The man’s colour was between
copper and coffee, not very dark, and he had a slender moustache, and
scanty curled hair on his chin. Up to that time I had always made up
Othello simply with my moustache, but after seeing that superb Moor I
added the hair on the chin, and sought to copy his gestures,
movements, and carriage. Had I been able I should have imitated his
voice also, so closely did that splendid Moor represent to me the true
type of the Shakespearian hero. Othello must have been a son of
Mauritania, if we can argue from Iago’s words to Roderigo: “He goes
into Mauritania"; for what else could the author have intended to
imply but that the Moor was returning to his native land?

First Trip to the United States

After a few months of rest [after the South American tour], I resolved
to get together a new company, selecting those actors and actresses
who were best suited to my repertory. The excellent Isolina Piamonti
was my leading lady; and my brother Alessandro, an experienced,
conscientious, and versatile artist, supported me. An Italian
theatrical speculator proposed to me a tour in North America, to
include the chief cities of the United States, and although I
hesitated not a little on account of the ignorance of the Italian
language prevailing in that country, I accepted, influenced somewhat
by my desire to visit a region which was wholly unknown to me.
Previous to crossing the ocean I had several months before me, and
these served me to get my company in training.

My first impressions of New York were most favourable. Whether it was
the benefit of a more vivifying atmosphere, or the comfort of the
national life, or whether it was admiration for that busy,
industrious, work-loving people, or the thousands of beautiful women
whom I saw in the streets, free and proud in carriage, and healthy and
lively in aspect, or whether it was the thought that these citizens
were the great-grandchildren of those high-souled men who had known
how to win with their blood the independence of their country, I felt
as if I had been born again to a new existence. My lungs swelled more
freely as I breathed the air impregnated with so much vigour and
movement, and so much liberty, and I could fancy that I had come back
to my life of a youth of twenty, and was treading the streets of
republican Rome. With a long breath of satisfaction I said to myself:
“Ah, here is life!” Within a few days my energy was redoubled. A
lively desire of movement, not a usual thing with me, had taken
possession of me in spite of myself. Without asking myself why, I
kept going here and there, up and down, to see everything, to gain
information; and when I returned to my rooms in the evening, I could
have set out again to walk still more. This taught me why Americans
are so unwearied and full of business. Unfortunately I have never
mastered English sufficiently to converse in that tongue; had I
possessed that privilege, perhaps my stay in North America would not
have been so short, and perhaps I might have figured on the English
stage. What an enjoyment it would have been to me to play Shakespeare
in English! But I have never had the privilege of the gift of
tongues, and I had to content myself with my own Italian, which is
understood by but few in America. This, however, mattered little;
they understood me all the same, or, to put it better, they caught by
intuition my ideas and my sentiments.

My first appearance was in “Othello.” The public received a strong
impression, without discussing whether or not the means which I used
to cause it were acceptable, and without forming a clear conception of
my interpretation of that character, or pronouncing openly upon its
form. The same people who had heard it the first night returned on
the second, on the third, and even on the fourth, to make up their
minds whether the emotions they experienced resulted from the novelty
of my interpretation, or whether in fact it was the true sentiment of
Othello’s passions which was transmitted to them–in short, whether it
was a mystification or a revelation. By degrees the public became
convinced that those excesses of jealousy and fury were appropriate to
the son of the desert, and that one of Southern blood must be much
better qualified to interpret them than a Northerner. The judgment
was discussed, criticised, disputed; but in the end the verdict was
overwhelmingly in my favour. When the American has once said “Yes,"
he never weakens; he will always preserve for you the same esteem,
sympathy, and affection. After New York I travelled through a number
of American cities–Philadelphia, Baltimore, Pittsburg, Washington,
and Boston, which is rightly styled the Athens of America, for there
artistic taste is most refined. In Boston I had the good fortune to
become intimately acquainted with the illustrious poet, Longfellow,
who talked to me in the pure Tuscan. I saw, too, other smaller
cities, and then I appeared again in New York, where the favour of the
public was confirmed, not only for me, but also for the artists of my
company, and especially for Isolina Piamonti, who received no
uncertain marks of esteem and consideration. We then proceeded to
Albany, Utica, Syracuse, Rochester, Buffalo, Toledo, and that pleasant
city, Detroit, continuing to Chicago, and finally to New Orleans.

In Cuba

From New Orleans we sailed to Havana, but found in Cuba civil war, and
a people that had but small appetite for serious things, and was
moreover alarmed by a light outbreak of yellow fever. One of my
company was taken down with the disease, but I had the pleasure of
seeing him recover, Luckily he had himself treated by Havanese
physicians, who are accustomed to combat that malady, which they know
only too well. Perhaps my comrade would have lost his life under the
ministrations of an Italian doctor. In the city of sugar and tobacco,
too, it was “Othello” which carried off the palm. Those good
manufacturers of cigars presented me on my benefit with boxes of their
wares, which were made expressly for me, and which I dispatched to
Italy for the enjoyment of my friends. In spite of the many
civilities which were tendered to me, in spite of considerable money
profit, and of the ovations of its kind-hearted people, I did not find
Cuba to my taste. Sloth and luxury reign there supreme.

Appearance in London

In Paris I found a letter from the Impresario Mapleson, who proposed
that I should go to London with an Italian company, and play at Drury
Lane on the off-nights of the opera. I was in doubt for a
considerable time whether to challenge the verdict of the British
public; but in two weeks after reaching Italy, by dint of telegrams I
had got together the force of artists necessary, and I presented
myself with arms and baggage in London, in the spring of 1875.

Hardly had I arrived, when I noticed the posting, on the bill-boards
of the city, of the announcement of the seventy-second night of
“Hamlet” at the Lyceum Theatre, with Henry Irving in the title-role.
I had contracted with Mapleson to give only three plays in my season,
“Othello,” “The Gladiator,” and “Hamlet,” the last having been
insisted upon by Mapleson himself, who, as a speculator, well knew
that curiosity as to a Comparison would draw the public to Drury Lane.

Impressions of Irving’s “Hamlet”

I was very anxious to see the illustrious English artist in that part,
and I secured a box and went to the Lyceum. I was recognised by
nobody, and remaining as it were concealed in my box, I had a good
opportunity to satisfy my curiosity. I arrived at the theatre a
little too late, so that I missed the scene of Hamlet in presence of
the ghost of his father, the scene which in my judgment contains the
clue to that strange character, and from which all the synthetic ideas
of Hamlet are developed. I was in time to hear only the last words of
the oath of secrecy. I was struck by the perfection of the
stage-setting. There was a perfect imitation of the effect of
moonlight, which at the proper times flooded the stage with its rays
or left it in darkness. Every detail was excellently and exactly
reproduced. The scene was shifted, and Hamlet began his allusions,
his sallies of sarcasm, his sententious sayings, his points of satire
with the courtiers, who sought to study and to penetrate the
sentiments of the young prince. In this scene Irving was simply
sublime. His mobile face mirrored his thoughts. The subtle
penetration of his phrases, so perfect in shading and incisiveness,
showed him to be a master of art. I do not believe there is an actor
who can stand beside him in this respect, and I was so much impressed
by it, that at the end of the second act I said to myself, “I will not
play Hamlet! Mapleson can say what he likes, but I will not play it";
and I said it with the fullest resolution. In the monologue, “To be
or not to be,” Irving was admirable; in the scene with Ophelia he was
deserving of the highest praise; in that of the Players he was moving,
and in all this part of the play he appeared to my eyes to be the most
perfect interpreter of that eccentric character. But further on it
was not so, and for the sake of art I regretted it. From the time
when the passion assumes a deeper hue, and reasoning moderates
impulses which are forcibly curbed, Irving seemed to me to show
mannerism, and to be lacking in power, and strained, and it is not in
him alone that I find this fault, but in nearly all foreign actors.
There seems to be a limit of passion within which they remain true in
their rendering of nature; but beyond that limit they become
transformed, and take on conventionality in their intonations,
exaggeration in their gestures, and mannerism in their bearing. I
left my box saying to myself: “I too can do Hamlet, and I will try
it!” In some characters Irving is exceptionally fine. I am convinced
that it would be difficult to interpret Shylock or Mephistopheles
better than he. He is most skilful in putting his productions on the
stage; and in addition to his intelligence he does not lack the power
to communicate his counsels or his teachings. Withal he is an
accomplished gentleman in society, and is loved and respected by his
fellow-citizens, who justly look upon him as a glory to their country.
He should, however, for his own sake, avoid playing such pants as
Romeo and Macbeth, which are not adapted to his somewhat scanty
physical and vocal power.

The Decline of Tragedy

The traditions of the English drama are imposing and glorious!
Shakespeare alone has gained the highest pinnacle of fame in dramatic
art. He has had to interpret him such great artists as Garrick,
Kemble, Kean, Macready, Siddons, and Irving; and the literary and
dramatic critics of the whole world have studied and analysed both
author and actor. At present, however, tragedy is abandoned on almost
all the stages of Europe. Actors who devote themselves to tragedy,
whether classical romantic, or historical, no longer exist.
Society-comedy has overflowed the stage, and the inundation causes the
seed to rot which more conscientious and prudent planters had sown in
the fields of art. It is desirable that the feeling and taste for the
works of the great dramatists should be revived in Europe, and that
England, which is for special reasons, and with justice, proud of
enjoying the primacy in dramatic composition, should have also worthy
and famous actors. I do not understand why the renown and prestige of
the great name of Garrick do not attract modern actors to follow in
his footsteps. Do not tell me that the works of Shakespeare are out
of fashion, and that the public no longer wants them. Shakespeare is
always new–so new that not even yet is he understood by everybody,
and if, as they say, the public is no longer attracted by his plays,
it is because they are superficially presented. To win the approval
of the audience, a dazzling and conspicuous mise-en-scene does not
suffice, as some seem to imagine, to make up deficiency in
interpretation; a more profound study of the characters represented is
indispensable. If in art you can join the beautiful and the good, so
much the better for you; but if you give the public the alternative,
it will always prefer the good to the beautiful.

Tragedy in Two Languages

In 1880 the agent of an impresario and theatre-owner of Boston came to
Florence to make me the proposal that I should go to North America for
the second time, to play in Italian supported by an American company.
I thought the man had lost his senses. But after a time I became
convinced that he was in his right mind, and that no one would
undertake a long and costly journey simply to play a joke, and I took
his extraordinary proposition into serious consideration and asked him
for explanations.

“The idea is this,” the agent made answer; “it is very simple. You
found favour the last time with the American public with your Italian
company, when not a word that was said was understood, and the
proprietor of the Globe Theatre of Boston thinks that if he puts with
you English-speaking actors, you will yourself be better understood,
since all the dialogues of your supporters will be plain. The
audience will concern itself only with following you with the aid of
the play-books in both languages, and will not have to pay attention
to the others, whose words it will understand.”

“But how shall I take my cue, since I do not understand English? And
how will your American actors know when to speak, since they do not
know Italian?”

“Have no anxiety about that,” said the agent. “Our American actors
are mathematicians, and can memorise perfectly the last words of your
speeches, and they will work with the precision of machines.”

“I am ready to admit that,” said I, “although I do not think it will
be so easy; but it will in any case be much easier for them, who will
have to deal with me alone, and will divide the difficulty among
twenty or twenty-four, than for me, who must take care of all.”

The persevering agent, however, closed my mouth with the words, “You
do not sign yourself ’Salvini’ for nothing!” He had an answer for
everything, he was prepared to convince me at all points, to persuade
me about everything, and to smooth over every difficulty, and he won a
consent which, though almost involuntary on my part, was legalised by
a contract in due form, by which I undertook to be at New York not
later than November 05, 1880, and to be ready to open at Philadelphia
with “Othello” on the 29th of the same month.

I was still dominated by my bereavement, and the thought was pleasant
to me of going away from places which constantly brought it back to my
mind. Another sky, other customs, another language, grave
responsibilities, a novel and difficult undertaking of uncertain
outcome–I was willing to risk all simply to distract my attention and
to forget. I have never in my life been a gambler, but that time I
staked my artistic reputation upon a single card. Failure would have
been a new emotion, severe and grievous, it is true, but still
different from that which filled my mind. I played, and I won! The
friends whom I had made in the United States in 1873, and with whom I
had kept up my acquaintance, when they learned of the confusion of
tongues, wrote me discouraging letters. In Italy the thing was not
believed, so eccentric did it seem. I arrived in New York nervous and
feverish, but not discouraged or depressed.

When the day of the first rehearsal came, all the theatres were
occupied, and I had to make the best of a rather large concert-hall to
try to get into touch with the actors who were to support me. An
Italian who was employed in a newspaper office served me as
interpreter in cooperation with the agent of my Boston impresario.
The American artists began the rehearsal without a prompter, and with
a sureness to be envied especially by our Italian actors, who usually
must have every word suggested to them. My turn came, and the few
words which Othello pronounces in the first scene came in smoothly and
without difficulty. When the scene with the Council of Ten came, of a
sudden I could not recall the first line of a paragraph, and I
hesitated; I began a line, but it was not that; I tried another with
no better success; a third, but the interpreter told me that I had
gone wrong. We began again, but the English was of no assistance to
me in recognising which of my speeches corresponded to that addressed
to me, which I did not understand. I was all at sea, and I told the
interpreter to beg the actors to overlook my momentary confusion, and
to say to them that I should be all right in five minutes. I went off
to a corner of the hall and bowed my head between my hands, saying to
myself, “I have come for this, and I must carry it through.” I set
out to number mentally all the paragraphs of my part, and in a short
time I said. “Let us begin again.”

During the remainder of the rehearsal one might have thought that I
understood English, and that the American actors understood Italian,
No further mistake was made by either side; there was not even the
smallest hesitation, and when I finished the final scene of the third
act between Othello and Iago, the actors applauded, filled with joy
and pleasure. The exactitude with which the subsequent rehearsals of
“Othello,” and those of “Hamlet,” proceeded was due to the memory, the
application, and the scrupulous attention to their work of the
American actors, as well as to my own force of will and practical
acquaintance with all the parts of the play, and to the natural
intuition which helped me to know without understanding what was
addressed to me, divining it from a motion, a look, or a light
inflection of the voice. Gradually a few words, a few short phrases,
remained in my ear, and in course of time I came to understand
perfectly every word of all the characters; I became so sure of myself
that if an actor substituted one word for another I perceived it. I
understood the words of Shakespeare, but not those of the spoken
language.

In a few days we went to Philadelphia to begin our representations.
My old acquaintances were in despair. To those who had sought to
discourage me by their letters others on the spot joined their
influence, and tried everything to overthrow my courage. I must admit
that the nearer came the hour of the great experiment, the more my
anxiety grew and inclined me to deplore the moment when I had put
myself in that dilemma. I owe it in a great degree to my cool head
that my discouraging forebodings did not unman me so much as to make
me abandon myself wholly to despair. Just as I was going on the
stage, I said to myself: “After all, what can happen to me? They
will not murder me. I shall have tried, and I shall have failed; that
is all there will be to it, I will pack up my baggage and go back to
Italy, convinced that oil and wine will not mix. A certain contempt
of danger, a firm resolution to succeed, and, I am bound to add,
considerable confidence in myself, enabled me to go before the public
calm, bold, and secure.

The first scene before the palace of Brabantio was received with
sepulchral silence. When that of the Council of Ten came, and the
narration of the vicissitudes of Othello was ended, the public broke
forth in prolonged applause. Then I said to myself, “A good beginning
is half the work.” At the close of the first act, my adversaries, who
were such solely on account of their love of art, and their belief
that the two languages could not be amalgamated, came on the stage to
embrace and congratulate me, surprised, enchanted, enthusiastic,
happy, that they had been mistaken, and throughout the play I was the
object of constant demonstrations of sympathy.

American Critical Taste

From Philadelphia we went to New York where our success was confirmed.
It remained for me to win the suffrages of Boston, and I secured them,
first having made stops in Brooklyn, New Haven, and Hartford. When in
the American Athens I became convinced that that city possesses the
most refined artistic taste. Its theatrical audiences are serious,
attentive to details, analytical–I might almost say scientific–and
one might fancy that such careful critics had never in their lives
done anything but occupy themselves with scenic art. With reference
to a presentation of Shakespeare, they are profound, acute, subtle,
and they know so well how to clothe some traditional principle in
close logic, that if faith in the opposite is not quite unshakable in
an artist, he must feel himself tempted to renounce his own tenets.
It is surprising that in a land where industry and commerce seem to
absorb all the intelligence of the people, there should be in every
city and district, indeed in every village, people who are competent
to discuss the arts with such high authority. The American nation
counts only a century of freedom, yet it has produced a remarkable
number of men of high competence in dramatic art. Those who think of
tempting fortune by displaying their untried artistic gifts on the
American stage, counting on the ignorance or inexperience of their
audience, make a very unsafe calculation. The taste and critical
faculty of that public are in their fulness of vigour. Old Europe is
more bound by traditions, more weary, more blase, in her judgment, not
always sincere or disinterested. In America the national pride is
warmly felt, and the national artists enjoy high honour. The
Americans know how to offer an exquisite hospitality, but woe to the
man who seeks to impose on them! They profess a cult, a veneration,
for those who practise our art, whether of their own nation or
foreign, and their behaviour in the theatre is dignified. I recall
one night when upon invitation I went to see a new play in which
appeared an actor of reputation. The play was not liked, and from act
to act I noticed that the house grew more and more scanty, like a
faded rose which loses its petals one by one, until at the last scene
my box was the only one which remained occupied. I was more impressed
by this silent demonstration of hostility than I should have been if
the audience had made a tumultuous expression of its disapproval. The
actors were humiliated and confounded, and as the curtain fell an
instinctive sentiment of compassion induced me to applaud.

Impressions of Edwin Booth

The celebrated actor Edwin Booth was at this time in Baltimore, a city
distant two hours from the capital. I had heard so much about this
superior artist that I was anxious to see him, and on one of my off
nights I went to Baltimore with my impresario’s agent. A box had been
reserved for me without my knowledge, and was draped with the Italian
colours. I regretted to be made so conspicuous, but I could not fail
to appreciate the courteous and complimentary desire to do me honour
shown by the American artist. It was only natural that I should be
most kindly influenced toward him, but without the courtesy which
predisposed me in his favour he would equally have won my sympathy by
his attractive and artistic lineaments, and his graceful and
well-proportioned figure. The play was “Hamlet.” This part brought
him great fame, and justly; for in addition to the high artistic worth
with which he adorned it, his elegant personality was admirably
adapted to it, His long and wavy hair, his large and expressive eye,
his youthful and flexible movements, accorded perfectly with the ideal
of the young prince of Denmark which now obtains everywhere. His
splendid delivery, and the penetrating philosophy with which he
informed his phrases, were his most remarkable qualities. I was so
fortunate as to see him also as Richelieu and Iago, and in all three
of these parts, so diverse in their character I found him absolutely
admirable. I cannot say so much for his Macbeth, which I saw one
night when passing through Philadelphia. The part seemed to me not
adapted to his nature. Macbeth was an ambitious man, and Booth was
not. Macbeth had barbarous and ferocious instincts, and Booth was
agreeable, urbane, and courteous. Macbeth destroyed his enemies
traitorously–did this even to gain possession of their goods–while
Booth was noble, lofty-minded, and generous of his wealth. It is thus
plain that however much art he might expend, his nature rebelled
against his portrayal of that personage, and he could never hope to
transform himself into the ambitious, venal, and sanguinary Scottish
king.

I should say, from what I heard in America, that Edwin Forrest was the
Modena of America. The memory of that actor still lives, for no one
has possessed equally the power to give expression to the passions,
and to fruitful and burning imagery, in addition to which he possessed
astonishing power of voice. Almost contemporaneously a number of most
estimable actors have laid claim to his mantle; but above them all
Edwin Booth soared as an eagle.

After a very satisfactory experience in Baltimore, I returned for the
third time to New York, and gave “Othello,” “Macbeth,” and “The
Gladiator,” each play twice, and made the last two appearances of my
season in Philadelphia. After playing ninety-five times in the new
fashion, I felt myself worn out, but fully satisfied with the result
of my venturesome undertaking. When I embarked on the steamer which
was to take me to Europe, I was escorted by all the artists of the
company which had cooperated in my happy success, by my friends, and
by courteous admirers, and I felt that if I were not an Italian I
should wish to be an American.